Portsmouth was a good place for the young couple to make their start. A
proud, thriving seaport with a population of about five thousand, it claimed
some of the best ships and sailors in the world and exuded an exotic atmosphere unknown to sleepy inland villages like Salisbury and Boscawen. Bustling wharves, dwarfed by the soaring spars of ships from Liverpool, Canton, and Jamaica, the cries of stevedores and seamen, a breeze heavy with the
scent of brine, molasses, rum, and spices, dockside taverns crowded with
pigtailed sailors -- all this was heady stuff for country folks. Still the town
was not really large enough to be intimidating, and Grace had the security of
knowing that her husband, with an assist no doubt from Christopher Gore,
had already ingratiated himself in some of the best Portsmouth drawing
rooms.

After temporarily renting quarters, Webster purchased a house not far
from his office near Market Square. Two stories high with a gambrel roof,
diamond-glass windows and probably four rooms to a floor, the house was
an eminently respectable residence for a fledgling lawyer and a good measure
of his ambition. He paid six thousands dollars for it, about three times his
annual income. Within the neighborhood, however, the Webster place was
modest enough. Not far down the street was the Governor Langdon House,
a handsome, three-storied, elegantly paneled mansion which had offered
hospitality to a host of famous visitors including George Washington. Webster would not entertain presidents in Portsmouth, but he was on the way.

Playing hostess to presidents was the last thing on Grace Fletcher Web

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